Baby Bluesby Minx

Lawrence, KansasSeptember 1983

John knew the minute he walked through the front door of his small but comfortable home that something wasn’t quite right.

Usually, when he came home from a long day at the garage, he was greeted by a giggling, bouncy four-year-old attaching himself to his pants leg while his very beautiful wife stood in the doorway to the kitchen, baby cradled in her arms, smiling and swaying softly to some Bad Company song on the radio.

Today, John was met with silence.

“Mary?” John called tentatively from the front hallway, eyes scanning the empty living room scattered with toys. He took another step forward. He frowned. “Mare?”

“In here,” came the irritated reply from down the hall.

John made his way into the brightly lit kitchen, and stopped short, sighing uncomfortably at the scene before him. Dean was sitting in his “naughty” chair, face to the corner, his little chubby legs tucked under him, sniffling, bottom lip jutting out as far it could go. John winced inwardly. This wasn’t good.

Mary, dark scowl on her pretty face, glanced up from the table where she sat, angrily peeling carrots, the rasping sound of the peeler harsh as it snicked across the length of the vegetable in short, sharp bursts.

“Hey, sweetheart,” John tried, offering up a weak smile as he set the newspaper he’d grabbed up from the lawn down on the counter. “Bad day?”

“Why don’t you ask your son,” Mary said.

Crap, John thought. Your son. Dean was never his son unless he’d misbehaved pretty badly. He sighed once again, scrubbing his face with one grease-stained hand while studying the pouting child before him.

“Sorry,” John finally whispered.

He wasn’t quite sure why he was apologizing since he hadn’t even been involved in whatever had occurred while he’d been at work, but he felt like it was the right thing to say at that moment. Or at least, it was the safest thing to say.

He dropped a kiss onto the top of Mary’s head as he passed by, pausing purposefully behind Dean’s chair.

He glanced back at Mary. “The baby okay?” he asked.

“Sammy’s fine,” Mary answered, never taking her eyes off the carrot she was whittling to death. “No thanks to his big brother,” she added accusingly.

Dean winced along with John this time.

“Hey buddy, how ‘bout you and me take a little walk?” John said.

He reached down over the back of the chair and lifted Dean up, turning the child before resting him onto his hip.

Dean stared up at his daddy, his eyes red and puffy, nose still leaking and pout working overtime.

Mary, her back to the men, let out a sharp hmmph, as if she had fully expected that declaration from her toddler.

“Let’s get out of Mommy’s hair, kiddo,” John said quietly.

He quickly exited the kitchen, carrying Dean down the short hallway and into the living room. John shoved aside a teddy bear and some plastic cars on the couch to make room for himself and then took a seat. Dean cuddled in his lap, one pudgy thumb finding its way into his mouth as he stared back at John with wide, bright eyes.

John gave his son a long, calculated look. “So, wanna tell Daddy why you were in the naughty chair?” he asked.

Dean popped his thumb out of his mouth long enough to answer. “’Cause Mommy’s mean.”

John suppressed a smile. Okay, he’d asked for that one. Child logic working here, John.

John gently pulled Dean back so he could look him in the eye. “Mommy hit you?” he asked uncertainly.

Dean’s head bobbed up and down. “Uh huh. On my bottoms,” he stated sadly. He reached back to rub his little denim-clad rear. “And it hurted, Daddy. Alot!”

“I’ll bet it did,” John replied, trying to sound earnest for his son’s sake, since Dean obviously considered this very serious business.

“Hitting is a no-no,” Dean asserted. He glanced up hopefully at his father, looking for confirmation.

“Dean, you got a spanking for being naughty. That’s different from hitting someone,” John tried to explain.

Dean didn’t look very convinced. In fact, he frowned unhappily.

“But it hurted,” he whined.

John nodded. “Well, buddy, you know that when you misbehave, you get a spanking from either Mommy or Daddy.” He reached down to cup one of his son’s rounded cheeks, thumb softly brushing the flushed skin. “So, why was Mommy mad?”

Dean squirmed in his father’s arms. He pulled his face away from John’s hand with a petulant scowl and tried to tuck his head back into John’s shirtfront, but was intercepted.

Dean’s voice was barely audible. “Mommy loves Sammy more’n me,” Dean hiccupped as a fresh wave of tears coursed down the little boy’s face. “Sammy don’t play right and he’s always cryin’ n’ Mommy won’t make him stop and she won’t read to me no more, so you need to take Sammy back, Daddy!”

EARLIER…

Mary let out another long, tired sigh, her emerald eyes deeply shadowed from lack of sleep. She couldn’t quite remember the last time she’d gotten a full night’s rest. It seemed like she and John had barely managed to experience the joy of Dean sleeping through an entire night when she’d discovered she was pregnant once again, and all hopes of getting eight hours of slumber - or hell, who was she kidding, even two to three consecutive hours – was lost to midnight feedings, round the clock diaper changes and jumping up at a moment’s startled notice whenever the baby monitor carried Sam’s harsh cries to her ear.

Even so, she wouldn’t give the experience up for anything. The chance to do something, be something, as normal as a housewife and mother was worth every bit of sleep she forfeited. A simple life of cooking dinners, picking up toys and hearing about her husband’s incredibly normal day at work practically made her giddy after the childhood she herself had had.

Mary’s eyes fell lovingly over the form of her infant son, who was currently busy bawling his tiny little heart out with such gusto, she wondered how he managed to catch his breath at all. Methodically patting and rubbing Sam’s arching back, Mary continued to rock to and fro in the chair next to the crib, Sam cradled to her shoulder.

Sam paid no attention to his mother’s soothing voice. Instead, he let out another angry howl, his face scrunched and red from exertion, a shiny string of drool looping from his gaping mouth to the collar of her blouse. His little chubby feet pummeled the air in frustration.

“Yeah, teething sucks, doesn’t it?” Mary said, smiling a little despite her overwhelming desire to burst into tears alongside her baby. “My poor Sammy,” she cooed, planting a kiss on the top of Sam’s head.

“Mommy?”

Mary peered up and over the baby’s head to spy her oldest child standing in the doorway to the nursery, an over-sized book clutched in both hands.

“Hey, Dean,” Mary greeted the child absently.

Sam squawked louder and Mary’s eyes dropped back down to the squirming, distressed bundle in her arms. She began to rock a little faster.

“Mommy!”

The tone held a note of censure to it, something a four-year-old’s voice shouldn’t even be able to accomplish, and Mary winced a little.

“I’m sorry. What is it?” Mary patiently asked. She made sure this time to keep her attention on Dean as the young boy bounced into the room and up to the side of the rocker. “What’cha need, punkin?”

Dean smiled brightly up at his mother. He leaned into her side, ignoring Sam’s wails and held the book up for Mary to see. “Read to me?”

Mary scanned the front of the book. Clifford the Big Red Dog. It was currently Dean’s favorite, and she and John had read it to Dean enough times already that he practically had each page memorized. It didn’t stop him from requesting it over and over again though.

“Please?” Dean pressed. He held the book up higher, narrowly missing smacking his baby brother in the head with it.

“Honey, be careful,” Mary warned. She moved her hand up to shield Sam’s head as the baby continued to fret and squall against her chest. “You could hurt Sammy if you accidentally hit him with that, Dean.”

Dean frowned. “I won’t hit him, Mommy,” he said. He pulled the book back to his chest, cradling it almost as protectively as Mary held Sam. Dean scowled at his baby brother a moment and then made a face. “How come he cries all the time?”

Mary let out a soft chuckle. “He’s a baby, Dean. Babies cry a lot.” She pulled Sam away from her shoulder a moment, eliciting an ear-splitting scream of displeasure out of the infant.

“He’s loud,” Dean noted in irritation. “Sammy, shut up!”

“Dean!” Mary gently scolded.

Dean squirmed and dropped his eyes guiltily to the floor.

“He’s teething, honey, and it hurts. So, he cries,” Mary explained.

“I falled down and hurted my knee and I din’ cry,” Dean countered. “Daddy said I was brave an’ I got a Big Bird band aid.”

Mary smiled, reaching over to brush Dean’s bangs from his eyes. “That’s right, you’re my big, brave boy.” Dean beamed up at her. “But Sammy’s still a baby and he still cries when he’s hurt.”

“Honey, Mommy’s busy and I don’t have time right now,” Mary tried to keep the aggravation out of her voice.

“But I wanna hear about Cliffer’ and -”

“Dean!” Mary’s harsh tone made Dean start. “I will read to you later. Right now, Sammy needs my attention.” Mary turned back to the crying infant in her arms, her weariness and frustration at the breaking point.

“You never play with me no more,” Dean pouted, glaring at the wailing, fussing baby. “Can’t we take him back and get a quieter one?”

“Dean James Winchester! That is not nice!” Mary pinned her oldest son with a stern look. “Your baby brother is fine exactly as is and your daddy and I love him very much, and you should too.”

“I bet if he was ugly, you wouldn’t want him no more,” Dean grumpily observed. He punctuated the statement with a huffy kick to the bottom rail of the rocking chair.

The rocker came to a stuttered halt as Mary’s eyes shot wide in disbelief at her son’s comment.

“That is it, young man.” Mary pointed a curt finger towards the door to the nursery. “You march yourself to your room, right now. And you stay in there until I come get you, do you understand me?”

Dean didn’t move.

“One…”

Dean’s eyes narrowed, lower lip pushing way out, a rigid shelf of disappointment and disapproval. Wordless, Dean turned and stalked out of the room, little fingers gripped tightly about the spine of his Clifford book.

Mary watched Dean leave, rolled her eyes when she heard him slam the door to his room and then groaned out loud.

“Some days, I wish there were two of me,” she muttered under her breath.

She bent to coo at Sammy as his tears finally tapered off, exhausted after carrying on for the past several hours. Finally, maybe some peace for a bit, she thought tiredly. But of course, that hadn’t been the case.

NOW

John tried hard to stifle the snorts of laughter that were shaking his chest and crooking up the ends of his mouth, but it was no use. He knew Mary was upset and that this was supposed to be a big deal, but no matter how hard he tried, the whole thing just amused the hell out of him. Unable to hold it in any longer, John let the chuckles burst forth in a warm bass rumble as he stared down into his child’s crib.

“It’s not funny, John.” Mary smacked her husband in the arm, shooting him an irritated glare. “Look at him!” She pointed down into the crib.

Sammy lay there, gurgling contentedly, his wide innocent eyes gazing up at his father. John bent down to run a finger across Sam’s warm, dimpled cheek, tracing the pattern of blue ink marks crisscrossing the skin there.

Another snigger escaped John’s lips and he ducked this time as Mary took a swing at the back of his head.

John rubbed unconsciously at his own forehead. “Yeah, I can see that. But, it’s not like it’s permanent. It’ll come off, right?”

Mary nodded, the tiniest ghost of a smile flitting across her lips. “It’s going to take days to wash off though,” she stated unhappily. She tapped the tip of Sam’s nose with a finger and Sam squeaked with delight, grinning and reaching for the appendage. “I can’t believe your son did this…”

John put his arms around Mary, pulling her back against his chest as he nuzzled the side of her neck from behind. They both stared down at Sam, whose face was covered in swirls, polka-dots and wavy lines, drawn with a childish hand using a ballpoint pen.

“Kid’s creative, if nothing else,” John pointed out softly. “What would you call that? Impressionism? Or maybe Modernist?”

“Oh, very funny,” Mary said. She elbowed her husband in the ribs. “I hope you appreciate that Dean’s ‘creativity’ earned him a spanking.”

John sighed. “You weren’t too hard on him, were you?”

“He got put over my knee and given five swats. I don’t think it was too harsh, considering he tried to ‘ugly’ up his baby brother in the hopes the stork would come take him away and bring back a better model.”

John smiled into Mary’s hair. “He didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Mary said. “But…” She turned in John’s arms, face lifted up to look into his warm dark eyes. “He was mad at me and he took it out on Sammy.”

John nodded. “And I talked to him about that.” John let his hands fall from Mary’s shoulder down to her waist, pulling her in closer to him. “He was afraid you didn’t love him anymore now that you have a newer version around.”

Mary’s eyes filled with hurt. “I feel like such a jerk,” she moaned, leaning her head up against John’s shoulder. “I’m glad he understands now that I do love him, even when he’s being a very naughty little boy.”

“You’re not a jerk,” John countered. “You’re a very tired mommy and Dean needs to realize that he’s not the one and only center of attention anymore. He needs to learn to share you.”

Mary nodded. “I know. You’re right. And thank you for talking to him.” She ran her fingers through the ends of John’s hair, tickling the back of his neck. “I think I may have earned a few points back at dinner for letting him have dessert even though he didn’t eat all of his carrots,” she stated dryly.

“You always earn points with me, lady,” John growled softly.

He bent down to press his lips to Mary’s, the kiss soft, yet heated. They heard a giggle behind them and John straightened up, breaking the kiss.

“Busted,” he teased.

“Mommy? Daddy? Sammy’s not ugly no more,” Dean happily announced.

Two heads swiveled towards Dean as one. Mary was the first to react.

“Oh. My. God. Dean James Winchester! What did you do?!”

“Me and Sammy look the same now!” Dean announced, still smiling. “See?” he proudly pointed at his face and then held up his favorite stuffed animal, a floppy-eared dog. “Look, Cliffer’ does too!”

Dean’s face was covered with whorls and lines from forehead to chin. He’d used a purple Sharpie marker this time from the looks of it. The same purple ink also covered the stuffed dog’s face, the ink bleeding and spreading across the plush fabric in uneven blotches.

Mary looked like she was about to cry. John gently patted her arm. “I’ve got this one, babe,” he murmured.

He leveled a stern frown at Dean as he bent down to wrap a hand around the boy’s arm, leading him out of the room and down the hallway towards the bathroom.

“Don’t you like it, Daddy?” Dean asked tentatively, his enthusiasm bleeding away at the sight of his father’s brittle countenance.

“You sure have a knack for finding trouble, Dean-o,” John sighed, shaking his head. “What did I tell you about staying out of the desk drawer and no more writing on people? Hmm?”

He flicked on the bathroom light, picked his son up and plopped him onto the counter next to the sink.

“We’re getting you cleaned up and then,” John leaned forward, placing a palm on either side of Dean on the counter, dipping down to within inches of Dean’s painted face, “you and I are gonna have a little ‘chat’ about following orders, mister.”

Dean gnawed on his lower lip as his daddy grabbed a washcloth off the towel rack and began wetting it down and soaping it up. He had a feeling that the ‘chat’ his daddy mentioned wasn’t going to be a fun one. Slowly, his chubby little hands crept down to cover his bottom in worry. Nope, definitely not fun at all.